black rivers flow
under white skies that shimmer and glow
the ground under foot
so soft from the melt of snow
and the pilgrims that come
are hidden in a place of shadows
with their wide brimmed hats
and their buckles of brass
but that now seems
as it were centuries ago
for here we are just now
bound to the present as it were
in small living rooms
where the sound of music grows
among a mix of young strangers
they are all dressed just right
and the sound of the banjo
it trickles and screams
while it lives among voices
and sleepy beer-soaked dreams
oh how it slips
through windows untidy
living on the air
in the wind
and driven so slightly
carried on the smiles of such faces
with their eyes open widely
as they step past the doorways
alone and together
into the night that breathes wildly
and know this for surely
they will come once again
for such songs are a bribery
filling our souls to the edge
and as we peer over
from this porch-wide lofty perch
it’s those songs we’ll remember
we will take them to our homes
and when those frontiers full of sadness
they ache our weary bones
we will sing out from our windows
to those ears in distant homes
for when we have such music
we shall never be alone
-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 3/9/14
poems365dotcom 